


suspend

by sirenseven



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Captivity, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Restraints, crossposted from tumblr because this is an archive for archiving, ra's al ghul being a creep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26830597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Tim can't feel his fingers anymore, but he'll still be damned if he gives Ra's even a shred of satisfaction.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98





	suspend

He can’t feel his fingers anymore. The bite of metal into his wrists is still sharp and vicious, but the painful tingling that rocketed through his fingers has died off. If he focuses hard on twitching them, he gets the dullest blip of sensation, but that’s it. Otherwise, his fingers might as well have packed their bags and run away, leaving him to this shit show.

He should probably look up to make sure they aren’t turning black or something. Check on his wrists, too. The scrapes weren’t deep last he looked, but it’s still a less than ideal place to be bleeding from.

His head is just so _heavy_ , though. The damp hair clinging to his face only seems to weight it down further. He doesn’t even have all his pounds of gear—no cape nor cowl, not even a shirt—but his body has never felt so heavy. In hindsight, giving up on balancing on his toes was a bad decision. His shoulders and wrists are probably unionizing to lodge a formal complaint about having to hold up the entirety of his body.

He’d just...slipped. And he was tired. And he didn’t have the energy to straighten back up.

Tim has been here for...for long enough he’s not quite sure how long he’s been here. Long enough he should probably check on his fingers again, instead of staring at the blood trails down his legs and under his feet. Probably why he slipped. The bright side of being shirtless is he won’t have to throw a stained shirt away, because these pants are definitely goners.

It’s not much of a bright side.

It’s also, Tim won’t lie, kind of insulting that he got stabbed in the abdomen again, in the _exact same spot_. At least he doesn’t have another spleen to lose, so it’s fine. Probably. Maybe.

He really hopes it’s fine, because dying so soon after he had a beautiful recovery movie-moment of deciding he wanted to live after all would be _a little bit annoying_. Plus, of everyone to die to, Ra’s so does not deserve the satisfaction.

Speak of the devil.

“Detective.”

Tim jerks in his bonds— _not_ the most well-thought out move. He hisses as the pain in his wrists flares up. For the first time in uncountable hours, he’s struck by enough energy to force himself onto his toes again. He’d rather not look so pathetically dangley in front of Ra’s.

He didn’t even notice the door open. He might be a little light-headed. Probably, he deduces, from all the blood loss and dehydration. (They don’t call him a genius detective for nothing.)

“Good evening,” Ra’s says. When Tim pulls his head up, there’s a hint of amusement to his expression. Bastard.

What did he say, evening? Is it evening now? Tim would have hoped to either come up with a clever escape attempt or be the subject of a heroic rescue by evening. Unless Ra’s is lying about the time to...be a liar. And fool Tim. For nefarious reasons.

He might be overthinking this. (Possibly they do call him a genius detective for nothing.)

“Could be better,” Tim rasps. 

Ra’s looks perfectly put-together as he meanders closer. This has got to make the top five list for Most Fucked Up Tim Has Been, but for all Ra’s’ expression betrays he might be sightseeing in a rose garden. That’s exactly the point of course, exaggerating the power dynamic, but it’s still fucking irritating.

“Yes, I must admit you look a little pale,” Ra’s says sympathetically. Considering _he’s_ still wearing the body of his sacrificed albino son, even with the dye-job on his hair, it’s just a little bit ironic.

“Probably the blood loss,” Tim says, out loud this time. (Genius detective.)

Ra’s stops in front of him. Tim has to lift his head all the way up to a normal level—a near insurmountable task—to see the infuriating little smile on his lips as he observes Tim’s wound. He kind of regrets looking when Ra’s takes his gaze on the scenic route up Tim’s torso before meeting his eyes.

Tim scowls. It would probably be more impressive if he didn’t almost forget to hold his neck up for a second.

“If you’d like to come down...”

“I'm not working for you,” Tim snaps.

He can’t feel his fingers. He knows the cuts are shallow, but his wrists still feel half a second from slicing through. His arms periodically zing up and down with pain; his shoulders are screaming; his head is near-impossible to hold up. His toes hurt. His legs shake. The stab wound on his torso has dulled to an ache, which is probably bad news. Honestly, his lungs aren’t feeling swell either. He’s cold in this little stone room, and he has a bit of a sore throat too.

There’s still zero fucking chance he’s letting Ra’s Al Ghul get his claws in.

The Demon’s Head doesn't blink at his denial. If anything, his face softens. “My work is for a better world, Detective. I would never make you do anything immoral. No murders to mar your conscience, if that’s how you prefer it.”

_Liar_. Tim says nothing. It won’t help him.

Ra’s takes his chin delicately between fingers. Tim is embarrassed to note he’s holding up most of its weight. The rest of his body stays at a thankfully safe distance, though Tim suspects that may have more to do with Ra’s not getting blood on his robes than any decency.

“There are plenty of ways to serve,” Ra’s says. Like spindly legs of a spider, fingers splay over Tim’s chest, palm tantalizingly warm against the bare skin.

Tim tenses. Knowing exactly how much it will hurt and deciding on it anyway, he shoves himself back. Pain surges along his arms. Tim grits his teeth, barely hearing the rattling chains above over the roar in his ears. With the way he dangles, he rocks back into place right after, feet scrambling for purchase—but his point is made.

Ra’s’ hand drops. For a split-second, Tim swears he’s going to return it and push the issue, but it stays down.

Tim catches his breath as the man steps back. There went all his remaining energy for the day. Or month. He’d like to go back to his dead dangle again. _Really_ , he’d like to curl up on the floor, but he’s not willing to make a deal with the devil to get it.

Not yet.

Tim blinks, raising his swimming vision just enough to see Ra’s has backed up to the door. His expressions are hard to read regularly, more so when he’s all blurry. Tim gives up.

“Perhaps next time,” Ra’s voice says, distant and annoying—and just a tiny bit beguiling, as Tim hangs and shivers.

The sound of the door closing echoes through the cell, cutting him off from temptation.


End file.
